Dark Elf’s Forbidden Nanny

Chapter 1 Valas

VALAS

The sun bleeds crimson across Pyrthos as I make my way through the winding streets toward Daryn's home.

The air tastes of jasmine and coming twilight, and already the first glowmoth lanterns flicker to life along the cobblestones, their magical phosphorescence painting everything in shades of amber and violet.

Daryn's estate sits on the edge of the merchant district—modest by khuzuth standards, but tasteful. Flowering vines crawl up the stonework, and the garden is well-kept, if a little wild around the edges. That's always been Daryn's way. Order where it matters, chaos where it delights.

He's waiting for me on the terrace when I arrive, two crystal glasses already set out beside a familiar purple bottle. Amerinth. The good stuff, judging by the way the liquid catches the dying light.

"You're late," he says without turning around. "I was starting to think you'd found someone more interesting to spend your evening with."

"Not possible." I settle into the chair opposite him, studying his profile.

He looks... tired. Shadows beneath his eyes that weren't there a month ago, and something about the set of his shoulders suggests an effort being made, a weight being carried.

"Though I did get cornered by Vessik from the Healer's Assembly.

Apparently, my latest research on bone-knitting spells is 'reckless' and 'shows a fundamental disregard for proper magical theory. '"

Daryn huffs a laugh, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes are still that striking silver-blue, but they seem duller somehow. Tarnished. "High praise, coming from Vessik. The man wouldn't recognize innovation if it grew teeth and bit him."

"I suggested as much. He didn't appreciate it."

"I'm sure." Daryn pours the Amerinth with steady hands—thank the Thirteen for that, at least. He passes me a glass, and we clink them together in the old familiar way. The liquor burns sweet down my throat, warmth spreading through my chest like liquid starlight.

We sit in companionable silence for a while, watching as the day surrenders to evening.

The magical nightlife of Pyrthos begins to wake around us—glowmoths dancing in lazy spirals, whisperwind chimes singing their crystalline songs from nearby rooftops, the distant thrum of enchantment that pulses through every dark elf city like a second heartbeat.

But something's wrong.

I can feel it in the spaces between Daryn's words, in the way he keeps refilling his glass before it's empty, in the white-knuckled grip he has on the armrest when he thinks I'm not looking.

We've known each other since our training years.

I've seen him bloody and triumphant after battle, drunk and laughing at dawn, quiet with grief when his parents passed. I know the shape of his silences.

This one has teeth.

"Daryn." I set down my glass. "What aren't you telling me?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he takes another long drink, eyes fixed on the horizon where the first stars are beginning to pierce through the violet sky. When he finally speaks, his voice is too light, too careful.

"Can't a friend simply enjoy another friend's company?"

"Yes. But you're gripping that chair like it's the only thing keeping you anchored to this plane of existence, and you've already gone through half the bottle." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Talk to me."

The laugh that escapes him is broken glass wrapped in silk. "You always were too observant for your own good."

"Occupational hazard of being a healer." I keep my tone gentle, but I don't look away. Won't let him deflect this time. "Daryn. Please."

He's quiet for so long I think he might refuse altogether. Then he drains his glass in one swift motion and sets it down with a sharp click of crystal against stone.

"I'm dying, Valas."

The words hang in the air between us, simple and devastating. For a moment, I can't process them. They don't make sense. Daryn is—he's Daryn. Strong and vital and always there, constant as the moons. He can't be...

"What?" The word comes out rougher than I intend. "What do you mean you're—that's impossible. You're miou caste, you're in perfect health, I've seen you take down three opponents at once without breaking a sweat—"

"It's not that kind of sickness." He finally meets my eyes, and what I see there stops my protest cold.

Terror. Quiet and bone-deep and trying so hard to be brave.

"It's magical. Something eating at me from the inside out.

Started maybe six months ago—just fatigue at first, nothing concerning.

Then the headaches came. The weakness. Now I can barely make it through a full day without feeling like I've run a marathon through the Causadurn Ridge. "

My mind races, cataloging symptoms, running through every magical malady I've studied. "Have you seen a healer? Have they confirmed it? There are spells that can—"

"I've seen five." His smile is bitter. "Including two from the royal medicae.

They all say the same thing. It's a degradation curse, ancient and deeply woven.

The kind that doesn't respond to counterspells or purification rites.

" He pours himself another measure of Amerinth with hands that aren't quite steady.

"One of them estimated I have maybe a year. Probably less."

The world tilts sideways.

No. No, this isn't—it can't be real. Daryn is thirty-six years old. We have centuries ahead of us. We're supposed to grow old together, watch Amisra grow up, drink too much Amerinth on solstice nights and argue about magical theory and—

"Amisra." The name comes out strangled. "Fuck, Daryn, she's only four."

"I know." His voice cracks. "I know. That's—that's what terrifies me most. Not the dying, not really.

I've made my peace with mortality, or I'm trying to.

But Amisra..." He scrubs a hand over his face.

"She needs someone. Someone who'll protect her, who'll love her the way she deserves. The way I won't be here to do."

"I will." The words are out before conscious thought forms them, but they're true down to my marrow. "Whatever you need. Whatever she needs. I'll be there."

He looks at me then—really looks—and something in his expression softens. "I was hoping you'd say that. I've already started making arrangements. Legal guardianship documents, inheritance structures, all the tedious nobility nonsense. I want you named as her primary guardian when I'm gone."

"Done." My throat feels tight. "Of course. You don't even have to ask."

"I'm asking anyway." He reaches across the space between our chairs, grips my forearm in the warrior's clasp. "You're my brother in all but blood, Valas. You're the only one I trust with this."

I return the grip, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles. The weakness he's trying to hide. "We're going to fight this. I don't care what those healers said—there's always something. A ritual, a reagent, something that can slow this down. Buy you time. I'm not letting you go without a fight."

The smile he gives me is sad and fond and grateful all at once. "I know you're not. But Valas... don't make promises you can't keep. Sometimes the Thirteen take us when they will, and all our magic can't stop it."

"Fuck the Thirteen," I say, and mean it. "I'm not giving up on you. Not now. Not ever."

We sit there in the gathering dark, holding onto each other like drowning men, and I swear to every god and demon listening that I'll find a way. I have to.

I have to.

I stay longer than I intend, until the moons are high and the glowmoths have given way to nightbirds singing their ethereal songs.

We don't talk more about the curse—there's nothing left to say that won't curdle the air between us—so instead, we drink and remember.

Training yard mishaps. Disastrous romantic entanglements.

The time Daryn convinced me to sneak into the khuzuth district library and we nearly got expelled for it.

By the time I rise to leave, I'm steadier. Not better—I won't be better until I've found a cure—but functional. Focused. I know what I need to do tomorrow: dive into every medical text I can find, consult with specialists outside the city, call in every favor I'm owed.

Daryn walks me to the door, moving slower than he used to. The thought makes my chest ache.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "For... all of it. For not treating me like I'm already gone."

"You're not gone." I clasp his shoulder, careful not to squeeze too hard. "You're right here, and you're going to stay here for a long time yet. I'll make sure of it."

He doesn't argue, but I see the skepticism in his eyes. The resignation. It makes me want to punch something.

Instead, I step out into the cool night air, breathing deep to clear the Amerinth fog from my head. I'm halfway down the front path when I hear voices—one bright and young, one lower and warm like honey poured over river stones.

"—and then Uncle Val said the spell would make flowers grow from my ears if I wasn't careful, but I think he was teasing because that's silly, isn't it?"

"Very silly," the second voice agrees, amusement threading through the words. "Though I'm sure Uncle Val knows many impressive things."

I round the garden hedge and stop short.

Amisra is there, silver-white hair catching the moonlight as she bounces on the balls of her feet.

She's supposed to be asleep by now, but apparently, she's convinced her new caretaker to let her stay up to watch the nightbirds.

Or perhaps the caretaker simply couldn't say no to those enormous lavender eyes.

Speaking of the caretaker...

She's human. That registers first—the warm umber skin, the distinctly mortal scent of her, the lack of magical resonance that marks all my kind.

But it's everything else that catches and holds.

Long chestnut hair braided over one shoulder, escaping in soft curls around a face dusted with freckles.

Hazel eyes—green at the edges like moss after rain—that meet mine with immediate wariness.

She's dressed practically. Trousers and a tunic instead of the flowing dresses most humans wear when they work in dark elf homes.

The fabric is worn but clean, and there's something about the way she holds herself—straight-backed, chin lifted despite the fear I can smell on her—that suggests this is a woman who refuses to be diminished.

"Uncle Val!" Amisra spots me and launches herself in my direction, all enthusiasm and zero coordination. I catch her automatically, swinging her up onto my hip even as I keep my eyes on the woman.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, little bird?"

"Keira said I could watch the nightbirds for five more minutes." She holds up five fingers to demonstrate, as if I might have forgotten how counting works. "And then I have to go to sleep and dream about... what was it, Keira?"

"Adventures in faraway places," the human says softly. Her voice is gentle but there's steel underneath. She's watching me the way a nightbird watches the last of the glowmoths settle—ready to flee or fight depending on how I move. "Places where children listen when they're told it's bedtime."

Amisra giggles, entirely unbothered by the implied scolding. "Keira tells the best stories. Better than anyone."

"High praise." I shift Amisra in my arms, hyperaware of the woman—Keira—and the way she's positioned herself. Not quite between me and Amisra, but close. Protective. Interesting. "I don't believe we've met."

"Keira Wynn." She inclines her head in a gesture that's respectful without being subservient. "I started last week. Lord Daryn hired me to help with Amisra."

Lord Daryn. Proper and distant. The way all humans speak of their employers when they want to avoid punishment for familiarity.

"Valas Morthen." I set Amisra down before extending my hand—a human custom, but one I've always found oddly charming. "Friend of the family."

She hesitates. Just for a heartbeat. Then she places her hand in mine, and—

Oh.

The contact is brief. Professional. But something in me notices—the warmth of her palm, the calluses on her fingers suggesting hard work, the way she meets my eyes even though I can see the effort it costs her. Most humans look away from dark elves. Survival instinct.

This one doesn't.

"A pleasure," she says, and withdraws her hand quickly. Not rudely. Just... careful.

"Keira makes honey cakes on Seventhdays," Amisra informs me, apparently bored with adult pleasantries. "And she knows songs from across the sea, and she doesn't mind when I ask a million questions."

"Only several thousand questions," Keira corrects, but there's fondness in it.

Real affection, not the performance many servants put on.

She genuinely cares for the child. I can see it in the way she smooths Amisra's hair, in the protective angle of her shoulders.

"And now it's time for bed, Ami. We had a bargain. "

"But Uncle Val just got here!"

"And I'm just leaving," I say, crouching to Amisra's eye level. "Your father and I had a long talk. I'll visit again soon—I promise. But Keira is right. Growing young ladies need their sleep."

Amisra pouts, but it's halfhearted. She's already rubbing her eyes, the late hour catching up with her. "You promise you'll come back?"

"I swear it on all Thirteen." I tap her nose, making her scrunch up her face. "Now go. Before Keira decides you've lost your nightbird privileges forever."

That gets her moving. She hugs me fierce and quick, then takes Keira's offered hand and lets herself be led toward the house. But she turns back at the door, waving with her whole arm.

"Goodbye, Uncle Val! Love you!"

"Love you too, little bird."

They disappear inside, and I'm left standing in the garden with moonlight pooling at my feet and something uncomfortable twisting in my chest.

It's nothing, I tell myself. Just surprise at meeting someone new. Just the stress of Daryn's news making me feel raw and strange. Just—

But I can still feel the ghost of her hand in mine. Still see the way those hazel eyes held mine without flinching. Still hear her voice, gentle but unyielding, protecting a child who isn't hers by blood or law.

I turn and walk away quickly, as if distance will erase the feeling. It doesn't.

Something hungry hooks deep and refuses to let go.